


Falling Into Freedom

by FlowerCrownOfPoppy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Blasphemy, M/M, Priest Kink, seriously there's so much longing here you could fill the dead sea with it, so much blasphemy, the homoerotic tension between a sad priest and his new demon friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerCrownOfPoppy/pseuds/FlowerCrownOfPoppy
Summary: Peter's never seen such beautiful eyes before. Their verdant hue surpasses the garden of Eden — but there's nothing holy in them. Nothing at all.They still bring him to his knees.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Kudos: 39





	Falling Into Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> A lonelyeyes server I'm in was having a blast writing horny priest!Peter/demon!Elias content, so I thought I'd toss my own take into the mix. Figured it would be a fun little break in between working on my other fic.
> 
> Sorry there's not a proper beginning for this thing but I wrote it in a stream of consciousness at like 1:30 in the morning and don't really have the spoons left to flesh it out/edit it past this.

Peter falls to his knees before Elias, this devil that burns with a beauty that surpasses angels, a blasphemy unto itself to admit.

“Elias, I …”

He bends his head to kiss those slim fingers, savoring the softness of every tip before suckling on them with the neediness of babes. His heart sings with exaltation at the soft sigh that leaves the devil’s shapely mouth, parted and curled _just so_ in a delighted grin.

“Oh, Peter Lukas.” A chuckle, a prayer, a voice so beautiful God himself would covet it for his holy choir. It now speaks his name, the name of a lowly _man_ , and it’s so tender that Peter’s eyes swell with tears.

“You always were such a lonely creature.” A fingertip damp with saliva tucks under his chin, forcing him to raise his head. “You bask in it. Revel in how it brings you both pain and peace.”

He looks this fallen angel in the eyes, eyes bright as corona bursts tinted viridian. They are filled with knowledge no mortal can or ever will comprehend, and they _see_ him.

“What a strange thing, to serve the community yet be separate from it." That finger is maddening as it strokes along his jawline, making his pulse jump. "For every grieving widow and lost soul you bear confession to, your own heart is cold. Always cold.” There’s no judgement in that tone, even though there should be. There’s nothing at all but the bright Knowing that swallows all else. Peter is tumbling into that unholy gaze, lost endlessly in its secrets.

“I could show you what true connection is,” Elias continues, lips twitching higher, “in a way God never will.”

“They told me you would do this.” It’s a miracle Peter can speak at all, for how dry his mouth is. He is parched to the bone. He would gladly plunge himself into the sea but he knows it won’t provide him relief, won’t sate the ache in his heart and his head and his traitorous sex. 

He licks his lips in vain and tries again. 

"They told me of temptation,” Peter says hoarsely, “Of your wickedness.”

“They did,” Elias hums and the fingertip draws back. Peter nearly falls forward, for without it he is heavier than all the brimstone in Hell. “And what they told you was even partially true. Yet they lie too, do they not?”

Elias leans down and his face is so very, very close to his own. Peter bends the way flowers do toward the sun, unable to resist. Unable to look away.

“They told you temperance would be rewarded.” Elias cups his face while he speaks, thumb stroking over the arch of his weathered cheekbone. “They told you patience is a virtue.”

The devil’s touch is both oasis and wildfire; it eases the emptiness in his marrow but makes desire burn hot in his belly, makes blood flush through every vein and sweat prick from every pore. 

“Yet it’s not temperance they laud,” Elias hisses, honeyed tone laced with venom, “It’s not patience they seek. They ask for your unwavering loyalty, your suffering, to pay your dues. Dues that were never truly promised and thus never will be honored.”

Peter has nothing to say. It rings true, true in a way no sermon he’s given ever has. The desire twists into nausea and confusion; how could damnation feel so integral to his being, so _natural_? How can he tell which truth will guide him on the right path? 

Perhaps there never was a right path at all. Perhaps this is the fate of all broken men, to kneel before temptation and know either choice will bring about the same end. To realize neither truly matters. 

The truth is his soul was always tainted. His heart was always a withered, battered little island, lost in an eternally stormy sea that no woman or tenet of faith could reach. 

And Elias knows it.

“And you?” Peter laughs bitterly, the sound failing to carry an echo. Flat and dead as the rest of this church, this town. “What would you ask of me?”

The smile gracing those plush lips widens into something far more predatory. The hand slides away from his face to settle on his shoulder.

“It’s simple, really,” Elias coos, viridian glow defying the drabness and the dark, “You need only say my true name and walk with me out that door." 

"That’s it.” Peter’s voice is quiet with revelation, with surrender.

“That’s it,” Elias repeats.

“Jonah,” Peter breathes. It should be difficult. It should hurt. It should raze his soul with hellfire the second it leaves his mouth — yet when he invokes the devil’s name it spills from his lips as golden ichor, sweeter than communion wine. 

“He who Sees all; he who Watched from Below so that all may be as it was Above; he who God abandoned in the realm he once was assigned as charge; he who witnessed sin upon sin, but would neither redeem nor judge. 

Jonah, cast down but not blinded, fallen but not defeated. Jonah, the Eye of God.” 

Peter doesn’t understand the words that leave his mouth. They flow as if they were always waiting inside him to be spoken, their truth slumbering close to his heart for decades. Is this what it is to be the golden harp, the trumpet of Israfil? An instrument of divine will but never the herald?

His train of thought is cut short by Elias pulling him up for a kiss. Peter lets out a groan, nausea and fear gone in an instant. Heat pours through him for the first time in a God’s age. He knows what it means to be consumed, then, to be broken and remade and _free_. 

They pull away from the kiss but not each other, walking down the aisle the way grooms do with brides. There’s no audience, nothing but cobwebs to witness a lonely priest shed his vestments and turn his back on God.

Peter Lukas walks out into that foggy night hand in hand with the devil, and no one ever sees him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this mature instead of teen because there IS a brief mention of a boner in there if you like, squint. Also the whole thing is pretty blatantly horny so. Yeah.


End file.
